Rikers War Episode Three
by jsk
Summary: A Romulan Bird of Prey happens on an abandoned Federation shuttle


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DISCLAIMER: "Star Trek" is the copyrighted by Paramount, and Paramount  
owns Star Trek and the Star Trek Universe. The following story is   
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Riker's War: Episode 3  
======================  
  
Romulan Gambit  
--------------  
(c) Jasjit Singh, July 1999  
  
Second Sub-Commander Turel sat in the command chair with a lopsided grin  
on his face. He shifted his weight to settle down more comfortably. He  
almost giggled with euphoria. It was such a delight to sit in the  
command chair! From his tall perch, he could see all of ships operations  
before him. Tactical, weapons, shields, power, and communications. It  
was night shift, and there was a subdued hum from the warp core as the  
Romulan officers quietly and efficiently went about their tasks. Turel  
drew in a long breath and smiled foolishly down at the officers, who  
ignored him. Nothing really happened during night shift, which was mostly  
spent with the ship under cloak, undergoing repairs or upgrades. Turel  
was responsible for the night shift.  
  
He put his hands behind his head, thrusts his legs out, and leaned back in  
the chair. It felt like being the Commander of the vessel! He pictured  
himself in a desperate battle, giving the order to fire, coming around and  
destroying the evil enemy ship. Which enemy would it be this time? The  
Klingons? No, they had been the subject of his last fantasy. He needed  
someone else. Variety kept his fantasies fresh and exciting. Ah yes, the  
new enemy, the Federation. He wanted to destroy a Federation ship. He  
pictured himself standing on the bridge as a victorious captain, giving a  
speech as his crew rejoiced at their victory.  
  
"Sub-Commander Turel."  
  
Turel opened his eyes and saw the tactical officer, T'paia, leaning over  
him with an arched brow.  
"Yes?" he asked exasperatedly.  
"We have picked something up on sensors," she said, taking a step back,  
her hands clasped behind her back.  
"Oh," Nothing like this had ever happened before on the night shift.  
Turel was unsure what to do. He looked at her questioningly. In all  
respects, T'paia was older and wiser than Turel, and in every respect she  
considered him as a younger brother. Reluctantly he considered her his  
older sister, although he denied it very vocally. Now, she was amused at  
his confusion, and a smile broke upon her face. She leaned closer to him  
and whispered:  
"We should take a closer look."  
"Ah, yes, of course!" he declared, jumping to his feet. "Ah, let's take a  
closer look at what we have on sensors then!"  
  
She nodded, hiding her amused smile, and returned to the tactical station.  
  
"It is a shuttlecraft. Minimal power, very faint life readings."  
"Markings?" questioned Turel.  
"Checking . . . it is a Federation vessel."  
  
Turel fell back into his chair, stunned.  
"Are we still under cloak?" he asked nervously, suddenly afraid.  
"We are under cloak," replied T'paia. "We should investigate why this  
shuttle was abandoned, sub-Commander."  
"Is that wise? What if there is a starship close by? A fleet of ships?"  
T'paia was beginning to get cross with Turel.  
"We are under cloak. They cannot detect us. If we see more Federation  
vessels, we shall simply move to a safe distance."  
  
Turel clapsed his hands before him, considering. Some of the officers had  
begun to notice his indecision, and glanced at him doubtfully. Turel had  
seldom made command decisions before, and on this ship, he had only  
obtained his high position by some political maneuvering by his father.  
The Commander of the ship, Varees, had been thoroughly displeased, but  
seeing as there was nothing he could do about it, had put Turel on the  
night shift.  
  
Finally, Turel looked at T'paia and scratched his head.  
"Yes, yes, lets investigate," he said, his voice trembling as he attempted  
to put on an air of nonchalance. Some of the officers shook their heads  
and went back to their tasks.  
  
The oval viewscreen blinked and then displayed the tiny white shuttlecraft  
floating, seemingly dead, in space. As they approached it, it grew in  
size, until Turel could almost make out the markings on it. What were  
those letters? Done in the language of the humans, no doubt. He gave up  
squinting at the screen and instead decided to wait until the shuttle was  
inside their cargo bay.  
  
***  
  
Commander Varees had been roused out of bed and called to the main cargo  
bay. He had stalked in, eyes still filled with sleep, with a scowl on his  
face. Turel meekly stepped aside as the large figure of Varees stepped  
in to take command.  
"What's this?" he asked, turning to Turel.  
"An abandoned Federation shuttle we picked up on sensors," replied Turel,  
his eyes travelling towards the shuttle windows. T'paia stood behind him,  
quiet and motionless.  
"Well, open it!" said Varees, waving an impatient hand at the door.  
Several men stepped forward, and began their work on opening the  
shuttle door. They set frequency descramblers on the aft door, and then  
stood back and waited. Seconds later, the door came off it's air-tight  
hinges, and slowly sank to the ground, becoming a low ramp for passengers  
to walk on.  
  
All eyes turned to Varees. He stepped forward and peered into the  
shuttle. It was dark inside, and musty. He turned up his nose. Awful,  
human climate controls.  
"Turel!" he roared. Turel snapped to attention and then hurriedly stepped  
up beside Varees.  
"Get inside there," growled Varees. Turel swallowed. Him, go inside the  
shuttle? He glanced inside the dark cabin, but his feet stayed firmly  
planted on the ground.  
"Well, what are you waiting for?" Varees's impatient voice mobilized  
Turels feet, and he found himself stumbling into the foreign shuttlecraft.  
  
It was so dark that for a moment he had to just stand and wait for his  
eyes to adjust. And it was so warm and musty. Like a library that had  
been closed off for entirely too many years. He coughed as he felt the  
choking strangehold of the must and the tightness in his chest.  
  
Gradually, as his eyes adjusted, he was able to see a little better. It  
was a tiny shuttle indeed, with only two seats in front, a pilot's chair  
and a co-pilot's chair. On the control panel, various lights blinked and  
ebbed, while the windows of the shuttlecraft were tinted so as to not  
allow any polarized light in. Sprawled in the pilot's chair was a human  
male. Turel stepped forward cautiously. He had heard of the cunning of  
the humans.  
  
The man was unconscious. Turel looked curiously at him. His uniform was  
that of Starfleet, but from the tears and burns on it, one could hardly  
even tell. This man had been through some kind of battle, thought Turel.  
  
"What's in there, Turel?" Varees called to him from outside the shuttle.  
Turel turned and replied: "A Federation Officer. He is not conscious."  
  
"Is he alive?"  
  
Turel looked at Rikers prostrate form dubiously.  
  
"I don't think so..."  
  
***  
  
The USS Crazy Horse shot through Space at Warp eight. On the bridge,  
amidst a chaos of running officers and a general alarm for Red Alert,  
Captain Data stood, watching the aft viewscreen. His first officer,  
Commander Yates, stood beside him silently. The image on the viewscreen  
was a sobering sight, a menacing black cube that was pursuing them  
relentlessly.  
  
"It's not going to stop," observed Yates, half to herself. Beside her,  
Data nodded.  
"Helm," he asked, "distance to the Cheuree solar system?"  
"Seventy three million kilometers, sir!" helm responded.  
  
Data's eye's blinked as he calculated the time that was required to reach  
the Cheuree solar system.  
"Sir, the Borg cube has increased to warp nine!" the tactical  
officer reported.  
"Helm, increase speed, warp nine," said Data.  
"Warp nine, aye sir," replied helm, increasing their speed.  
  
Just as soon as they had achieved warp nine, a new alarm sounded. The  
reports came in, shields were failing on deck twelve.  
"Evacuate deck twelve," said Data, taking his seat, "engage emergency  
shields."  
"Understood," the reply from engineering came, "but we're going to need  
more power if we're going to be able to hold this ship together much  
longer!"  
"Acknowledged."  
  
"Captain!" It was the tactical officer again, looking very grim, "the Borg  
cube has increased speed to warp nine point three."  
"They want to catch us pretty badly," commented Yates. And then to helm,  
"Increase speed to warp nine point three."  
"Our warp core will not be able to maintain a sustained velocity of warp  
nine point three," remarked Data. "We require a method of slowing them  
down."  
"What if we vent exhaust plasma?" asked Yates. Data nodded.  
"It is worth a try," he said.  
  
  
The Crazy Horse's warp nacelle's dimmed slightly as the exhaust plasma,  
which was a very volatile mixture, began leaking and clouding the space  
behind it. For several minutes it poured out, and the Borg cube cut  
through it in its pursuit. Then, without warning, a single torpedo was  
fired from the aft side of the Crazy Horse. The lone torpedo hurtled  
through the empty space like a single glowing ember of a vast fire.  
Somewhere in the center of the cloud of plamsa, the ember detonated,  
sparking into existence a blazing fire. The huge leaping flames engulfed  
the oncoming Borg cube, which began to slow down, but was still moving too  
fast to avoid the explosion.  
  
On board the Crazy Horse, Data and Yates stood watching the viewscreen.  
Amber flames filled their viewpoint, and the Borg cube was nowhere in  
sight. Yates opened her mouth to make a comment, but then shut it again,  
as a sensor beeped. As they watched, a dark blackness emerged from the  
plamsa flames, shining like slick black oil, superheated to a  
temperature of several hundred thousand kelvins. The Borg cube emerged   
from the roaring flames like a black beast rising from the depths of Hell.  
And still they came.  
  
"I don't believe it," breathed Yates, her breath catching in her throat.  
  
"Sir, the Borg cube is now moving at warp nine point nine," reported  
tactical hopelessly. "At this rate, they will catch us in . . ."  
"Approximately thirty minutes and twelve seconds," Data finished.  
  
An emergency report came in from engineering.  
"We are losing structural integrity! If we keep up this velocity, the  
ship is going to be torn apart. We *must* drop out of warp."  
"We cannot," replied Data, "If we drop out of warp we risk assimilation  
by the Borg."  
"Shields on decks seven, eighteen and twenty-two have collapsed.  
Emergency shields on deck twelve have failed!"  
"Computer," Data punched in his authorization code at the control  
panel on his seat arm, "Seal off section two D, deck twelve."  
The computer beeped and then responded : "Unable to seal off that  
section."  
"Explain."  
"Locking mechanisms for bay doors are frozen. Manual override may be  
necessary."  
  
Data stood.  
"Commander Yates, you have the bridge," he said.  
"Sir, I must protest this course of action. You are putting yourself at  
risk, and my duty is to see that you are safe."  
"Your protest is noted, commander. However, I am the best suited  
person for this task. If there is a cabin depressurization on deck  
twelve, the entire ship may be destroyed. Without the emergency shields,   
that may happen at any moment. I need to seal off that section before  
depressurization occurs."  
Yates took in a deep breath, and then nodded reluctantly. Data turned and  
headed towards the turbolift doors.  
  
The evacuated deck twelve of the Crazy Horse was suffering critical  
structural damage. Outside the ship, panels were crumbling and coming  
loose, being torn away from the ship's hull by extreme shearing forces.  
One such panel, large in its size, ripped itself away from the hull,  
leaving a large gaping hope in the side of the starship, a hole which from  
Space could be looked into, and looking inside the gaping hole, an entire   
mess hall could be seen, tables, chairs, even the color of the  
carpet....and the turbolift doors directly opposite the hallway were  
clearly visible . . .  
  
***  
  
Captain Riker groaned as he awoke to consciousness. His head throbbed  
with a pulsing headache. He raised his hand to his aching head as he  
propped himself on one elbow, and surveyed his surroundings. He was in  
the medical facility of a Romulan ship, laid on a bed of sorts. At the  
foot of the bed, three austere looking Romulans stood. The one in front,  
stood with his arms behind his back, looking critically at him. Behind  
him a doubtful but inquisitive looking male, and on the other side, a  
female. Riker sighed.  
"I am Commander Varees," the first man said, "State your name."  
"Captain William T. Riker, of the Fed-- of the starship Decatur."  
"What were you doing in a lone shuttlecraft so far from your Space? Were  
you attacked?"  
  
Riker groaned and fell back onto the bed.  
"I was attacked. By my own ship!" he cried.  
"Elaborate."  
"There was a mutiny. They turned against me. I barely had enough time to  
escape, taking one shuttle. They sent someone after me. There was a  
struggle. I can't remember much after that..."  
  
Varees looked at Riker with the same expression as before. Then he spoke  
slowly.  
"Mutiny is almost unheard-of on Federation vessels," he said. Riker  
looked up to face him with a scowl.  
"Maybe you haven't heard, Commander Varees, but the Federation has been  
assimiliated by the Borg!" he spat out. Varees did not react. Instead,  
he turned and walked out of the room, followed by his two officers.  
  
  
Several hours later, the doubtful looking Romulan returned. He walked up  
to the bed and de-activated the force-field that was holding Riker down.  
"The Commander will see you," he said. Riker nodded, and climbed off the  
bed stiffly, stretching his arms.  
"Will he allow me to serve on this ship?" asked Riker, following Turel out  
of the medical bay.  
"I do not know," replied Turel. And then, "Why do you wish to serve  
aboard this ship?"  
"My people have turned against me. I have no other place to go," replied  
Riker sadly. Turel turned his face back to look at Riker, and felt a pang  
of sadness for him.   
  
  
When they reached the Commanders ready room, Turel stood aside and let  
Riker enter the room. Riker looked at the man, nodded, and then stepped  
forward. The doors slid open, and then shut behind him as he stepped  
inside.  
  
From behind his desk, Commander Varees spoke.  
"I have two choices, Captain William T. Riker. I can either keep you  
imprisoned here, or I can kill you."  
  
Much to the Commanders surprise, Riker grinned. He walked toward the  
Commanders desk, and took a seat. From across the desktop he beamed at  
Varees.  
"Or, " he said finally, "you can allow me to join your crew."  
Varees raised his eyebrows in surprise.  
"Why would I allow that, Captain?" he asked in a measured tone.  
"Because I have some skills that you may need."  
"The Romulan Empire does not look for human soldiers to serve on it's  
warships."  
"I have extensive knowledge and intelligence of the Federation."  
"The Federation, which by your own admission has been destroyed by the  
Borg. No, Captain, I don't see any need of you on my ship. You will be  
kept in the prisoner cells until we reach Romulus. Then, you will be  
executed."  
  
Varees pressed a button on his desk, and the doors slid open. Turel  
walked in.  
"Turel," said Varees, "take our prisoner to the cells."  
  
***  
  
The turbolift stopped and the doors opened. Data had a millisecond to  
take in the sight before him. Across the hallway, the mess hall was open  
to the endless infinity of Space. Even as he looked, the forcefields  
collapsed and the tables and chairs began to quiver. Then suddenly, a  
blast of air hit him as cabin depressurization began to occur. The  
furniture in the mess hall was whipped up in a whirlwhind, and after a  
brief pause in mid-air, was sucked out into Space. Data was caught  
off-guard, and pulled off his feet. He was whisked up into the air, and  
flung across the mess hall.  
  
Even as he was flung, he looked for a handhold, but being in mid-air,  
found none. As his body reached the edge of the ship, he reached out with  
his right hand and grabbed the interior wall of the hull. He clung to it  
as chairs and bottles and tables went hurtling by him into Space. He  
glanced behind him amidst a torrent of rushing air, and saw the contents  
of the mess hall floating amidst the stars. Turning his head, Data could  
see the glowing warp nacelles above him.  
  
He tried moving his arm, but the pressure of the air being sucked out of  
the cabin was too great. He tried moving his legs, but his joints had  
begun to freeze with the exposure to the coldness of Space. Finally, he  
was able to reach the tricorder that hung from his waist. He flipped it  
open, and tapped the buttons.  
  
"Computer," he shouted above the din of the rushing wind. "Engage  
emergency transport, using coordinate settings as specified."  
  
And he pushed the button on the tricorder.  
  
He dematerialized from his precarious position on the ships hull, and  
found himself in the hallway cross-section for desk twelve. As soon  
as he materialized, he crouched down by the control panel, and opened the  
cover.  
  
The manual override for the locking system was here. Data tapped a few  
buttons, and then pulled on the lever. As he pulled it down, the locking  
mechanism was engaged, and the heavy bay doors started to drop, sealing  
off section two D of deck twelve.  
  
As the door came down and touched the floor behind him, Data stood and  
walked away towards the turbolift.  
  
"Commander," he said, tapping his comm badge, "section two D of deck  
twelve has been sealed."  
  
***  
  
Riker paced the confined cell of the Romulan ship. His plan had gone  
completely awry. By this time, the Decatur would be sneaking up behind  
the ship on the far side of the third planet of this solar system, hidden  
from prying Romulan sensors. But everyone aboard the Decatur expected  
Riker to be on the bridge of the Romulan ship by now, serving as one of  
the newly appointed crew. With a sigh Riker realized that Romulan ships  
were not structured as pirate vessels. He slammed a fist into the wall in  
frustration. He had to get out of this prisoner cell if the Decatur was  
going to survive the impending confrontation.  
  
As he stood contemplating in the lone cell, the doors of the cabin slid  
open and Turel walked in. Riker turned to face him.  
"The Commander does not see the inherent value of your....varied skills,"  
he stated.  
"But you do?" said Riker hopefully.  
"I know that you can be useful....in certain circumstances. I will let  
you work on a limited shift. In the cargo bay." And then he said  
suggestively, "Our weapons batteries are not far from there."  
  
Riker nodded. The Romulans eyes narrowed.  
  
"You will not attempt to decieve me. Else I shall kill you where you  
stand. Is that understood?"  
"I pledge my loyalty now and forever to the Romulan Empire!" said Riker  
forcefully.  
Turel seemed satisfied, for he nodded, and then deactivated the cell's  
forcefield.  
"Won't you be punished for insubordination?" asked Riker as he stepped out  
of the cell.  
"Varees is preoccupied with his own affairs, he is enmeshed in political  
maneuvering. He will not know that you are not confined. Besides, you  
will be working in the cargo bays, far from the bridge, and away from  
sight. Prove yourself to us, and I might be able to persuade Varees to  
lighten your sentence...or even take you on board as a member of the  
crew."  
"Why?" asked Riker, "why are you helping me?"  
  
Turel considered a moment before answering him.  
"Like you, I know what it feels like to be isolated. I know that it is a  
feeling which one does not cherish. Therefore I do what I can to relieve  
your pain. If it means serving aboard this ship, so be it."  
"At the risk of your own rank?"  
  
Turel nodded. "I came by this position far too easily. To lose it will be  
of no great concern to me. But," and now his eyes narrowed, "if you seek  
to decieve me, Riker, understand that I will kill you with my own hands.  
I have no love of humans."  
Riker nodded. "I understand."  
  
And he followed Turel out of the cabin, hoping desperately that the  
Decatur would wait just a little longer in the shadows . . .   
  
  
. . . On board the Decatur, Commander Shelby studied the readings that the  
computer was sending to the scanning monitor. Tacheon particles. They  
could track their generation in Space. This was the tell-tale sign of a  
cloaked Romulan ship. They had been tracking this trail for well over ten  
days now. They had left the deserted shuttle with Riker in it at just the  
right moment. By now Riker should be on the bridge, with access to  
several of the ships functions, including weapons...if all had gone well.  
But on the other hand, he might just as easily be dead. There was no way  
to know until they made contact.  
  
Shelby took a deep breath.  
"Helm, take us out of orbit," she ordered, turning back towards the main  
viewscreen. "bring us directly under the last traced coordinates of the  
tacheon particles."  
"Aye sir," replied the helmsman, and the ship began to move. As they  
emerged from the shadow, Shelby called for red alert, and took her seat.  
Beside her, Deanna sat, tense with anticipation. As if reading Shelby's  
thoughts, she said: "He is still alive, I can feel it."  
  
  
When they had arrived at the said coordinates, they came to a full stop,  
and sent out a general hail.  
"All ships, cloaked or not, this is Commander Shelby of the Starship  
Decatur. We seek the traitor Riker. If he is in your possession,  
relinquish him immediately."  
  
Shelby held her breath as the silent seconds ticked by. Then, finally,  
Worf reported an incoming transmission.  
"It is them," he said simply.  
  
On their main viewer, the towering green bulk of a Romulan Bird of Prey  
decloaked before them. Then the image shifted to that of a stern looking  
Romulan Commander, who sat with his hands together before him.  
"We have your man," he said simply.  
"Who are you?" asked Shelby hastily.  
"I am Commander Varees, and your traitor is now a prisoner of the Romulan  
Empire."  
"He is to be tried under our law, you must relinquish him!" said Shelby in  
an agitated voice. Varees's face only grew sterner, and his voice more  
deadly serious.  
"He is our prisoner, and the matter is closed," he said, his voice thick  
with threat.  
"Varees, if you do not extradite the traitor Riker to us for trial and  
punishment, we will be forced to fire upon you," replied Shelby.  
"Look around you Commander," said Varees, "the Federation is no more.  
Your little band of ships will not be able to hold out against the entire  
Romulan Empire. Do not make a foolish move here today, I warn you."  
  
And the transmission ended. Shelby turned to face Deanna.  
"If he was on the bridge, I did not sense it," said Deanna helplessly.  
The Romulan ship began to cloak again. Shelby swung around, knowing that  
the time for action was now.  
"Mr. Worf," she said, her face determined, "photon torpedoes. Full  
spread. Now."  
"Photon torpedoes armed and ready," reported Worf.  
"Fire!"  
  
The five glowing points of light trailed across their viewscreen and  
struck the fading Romulan ship.  
"Direct hit," reported Worf. As Shelby sat back down, she had one order  
to give:  
"Battlestations."   
  
  
Riker was nearly thrown off his feet by the impact of the photon  
torpedoes. He realized that the Decatur must be out in the open by now.  
He had to hurry. He stopped short just inside the cargo bay, swung  
around, and ran back into the hallway. A blaring alarm sounded nearby.  
Riker saw a few Romulans running towards their stations, but noone paid  
him any heed. He waited until the way was clear, and then headed towards  
the weapons batteries that Turel had spoken of.  
  
Inside, it was hot. Sweat began to pour down Rikers face as he ran among  
the stacked torpedoes and disruptor rifles. He was looking for the  
central control room. He had to run through several corridors, as the  
ship rocked from more torpedo impacts, before he located it. Finally,  
when he found it, he opened the doors and ran inside.  
  
It was a cramped little room, with ladders heading up and down, and  
control panels lining all four walls. There was one Romulan inside.  
Riker struck him with all the force he could muster, and the surprised  
Romulan fell sidelong, unconscious from the blow. Riker turned to the  
control panels.  
"How does this thing work?" he asked to himself.  
"I am sure I could show you how, but since you have betrayed me, I will  
have to kill you now."  
  
The voice came from behind him. He swung around to face Turel, who had a  
disruptor aimed levelly at him.  
  
  
  
"Shields are gone!" Worf roared amidst the chaos on the bridge of the  
Decatur.  
"Evasive maneuvers, pattern delta!" yelled Shelby. "We must buy Riker  
more time!"  
The Decatur lurched sideways as another phasor shot out from the Romulan  
ship towards them.  
"We must retreat!" shouted Huntingdon, "we have no advantage over them!"  
"No!" Shelby yelled back at him, "we must buy Riker more time!"  
"We are defenseless! One more hit and we are destroyed! All of us!"  
  
Worf cut in with another report: "They are firing!"  
  
***  
  
The turbolift doors on the bridge of the Crazy Horse slid open and Captain  
Data walked in, dusting off the arm of his uniform.  
"Report, Commander," he said, resuming his position on the bridge.  
"We are entering the Cheruee solar system," she reported, with a smile  
upon her lips. "Glad you made it, sir."  
Data nodded. "Helm," he instructed, "alter course, seven zero mark one one  
three."  
The helmsman nodded altered the course of the ship.  
"Prepare to drop out of warp," said Data. "Now."  
  
The Crazy Horse came out of warp directly between the Decatur and the  
Romulan Bird of Prey, taking a phaser hit point blank. Directly behind  
the Crazy Horse, the Borg cube came to a stop.  
  
  
  
Riker stood with arms raised, while Turel stepped forward, aiming the  
disruptor at Rikers chest.  
"This is set to the highest level. Your death will be slow and extremely  
painful," he said.  
"I need your technology," said Riker, desperately.  
"And so you attempt to steal it. By deception! It was true, what I have  
been told about humans. You are masters of deceit!"  
  
Rikers gaze settled on someone behind Turel. She stepped forward, and  
looked at Turel, and then at Riker. It was T'paia.  
"What's this?" she asked in a cold voice. "The prisoner out of his cell?  
Is this your doing?"  
Turel's brows were bunched up in confusion. He shook his head as if to  
clear it.  
"I'll take care of it, T'paia," he said dismissively.  
"No, I don't think you will," she said, and took the disruptor from his  
hand. "Go, you're required on the bridge. I'll deal with him."  
  
Turel did not move.  
  
"Go!" yelled T'paia in his face. She was severely angry with him, he  
could tell. He jumped, and then slinked out of the small room. After he  
had gone, she turned to Riker, and raised the disruptor to aim at him.  
  
Riker blinked at the sudden brightness. He was in a different place and  
time. It was too bright for his eyes. There was a solid floor underneath  
his feet, but looking around, he could not tell if there was a horizon or  
a ceiling. He was in an unnatural place. There was a white light  
radiating and emanating from everything here. And yet, he was the only  
thing of substance in this place, everything else was light and radiance.  
He swung around, but did not see anything new. Where was he?  
  
"Hello!" he called out. "Is anyone there?"  
  
He walked a few steps, looking around. Nothing.  
  
And then, when he turned, there was a figure, draped in a long robe, a  
dark hood covering it's face. Riker turned towards it.  
"Who are you?" he demanded. "Where am I?"  
"You are in the celestial temple," the figure responded, his voice rich  
and vibrant, full of energy and at the same time calm and soothing.  
"And who are you?" asked Riker, more slowly now, more reverent. The  
hooded man pulled back his hood, so that his face was visible. His was a  
familiar face, thought Riker, as he gazed upon it.  
"I am the emissary of the prophets," said the man, starting to smile.  
"The emissary? Prophets, what prophets?" Riker was confused. But the face  
seemed familiar. He was trying to place it.  
"The prophets who reside in the celestial temple. You have been chosen  
for a task. Your path is a difficult one."  
"What path? What task? My task is to fight the Borg," said Riker, his  
mind struggling to remember. Wolf 359 . . . wasn't he at Wolf 359?  
  
"You're Commander Sisko!" Riker snapped with sudden realization. "You  
were at Wolf 359!"  
The emissary smiled.  
"I was," he replied, "I am."  
"Then how are you here? now?" asked Riker, confused.  
"It is, difficult to explain," said the emissary, smiling in resignation,  
"it's not linear."  
  
"I was, on the Romulan ship," said Riker slowly. The emissary nodded.  
"You must trust those that you cannot," said the emissary. "This is the  
beginning."  
  
And just as suddenly, Riker found himself back aboard the Romulan ship, in  
the hot control room, sweating, with T'paia aiming the disruptor at him.  
But instead of firing, she lowered the weapon, and walked to the control  
panel.  
"I believe this is what you were looking for," she said, tapping the  
controls, and then disappearing underneath some panels for a few minutes.  
She reappeared carrying a cylindrical device.  
"The cloaking device," said Riker absently, as she set it down on the  
floor by his feet.  
"Yes," T'paia nodded. "Take it and go. I will transport you to your  
ship. They have no shields."  
"Why?" asked Riker, as T'paia engaged the transporter.  
"Everything is not what it seems, Riker," she said, "There are winds of  
change blowing on Romulus. Your 'escape' will help our cause. Varees is   
not popular, his political standing is waning. The reunionists will  
prevail."  
  
  
And as he dematerialized, the last thing he saw was T'paia smiling  
exultantly. Not at him. More to herself. As if his escape would be the  
final nail in Varees's coffin.  
  
  
Commander Shelby was smiling at Captain Data on the viewscreen.  
"You came just in time!" she said, suppressing a laugh of joy. Data  
nodded and his attention was refocused as Riker materialized on the bridge  
of the Decatur with a cloaking device alongside him. A victorious grin  
spread across Rikers face.  
"Mission accomplished!" he said, "Commander Shelby, we best be getting out  
of here."  
"Aye sir. Helm, warp nine, escape route Shelby one."  
  
The Crazy Horse and the Decatur both shot into high warp, leaving the  
Romulan ship facing the Borg, whose attention was now directed at the  
newly discovered species.  
  
Varees sat stolidly in his chair as the comm channel opened to him:  
  
"We are the Borg. Resistance is futile. You will lower your shields and  
prepare to be boarded. Your technological and biological distinctiveness  
will be added to our own."  
  
  
T h e E n d  
(c) Jasjit Singh, 1999  
  



End file.
